


Patience, Possibilities, and Partnership

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [12]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Desperation, First Time, First Time Bottoming, M/M, Setting: the old office, Voyeurism, desperation to pee, ditching work to fall in love, ditching work to fuck, first time giving a blowjob, first time making out with your cofounders, misuse of Slack channels, the very edges of what counts as watersports, unedited chatfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 05:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18131576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: This office has limitations, but Jon, Jon, and Tommy have a plan to make it easier on everyone. Unexpectedly, they end up benefiting the most.





	Patience, Possibilities, and Partnership

"Partners’ meeting, come to order," Lovett announces. Tommy and Favs largely ignore him, still scrolling through Twitter. "Guys. Any minute now."

"Two seconds," Tommy mumbles, typing something.

"Jon?" Lovett prompts. "Chairman of the board? You gonna participate?"

"When the food arrives, the meeting can start," Favs tells him. "Did you see this thing Dan retweeted about Boehner?"

Lovett did see it. Lovett also knows if they start talking about it now, it'll derail their plans for the hour and they'll have to do this whole thing again. Who said he couldn't learn; he's totally learning. They're rocking this business owning thing.

Lovett thinks about unplugging his modem, but they have data plans. He thinks very seriously about actually taking their phones out of their hands, but he has a suspicion he might get bitten from pure addicted instinct.

He goes and gets them beers, instead, and once they look up to thank him—polite boys, always—he snaps his fingers. "Pay attention now."

Each of them sighs, laughs a little, and tucks his phone away. Success.

"First on the agenda: the bathroom problem."

Jon groans, and buries his head in his arms. "God," he says, "I know. How long do we have left on the lease, Tom?"

"You know how long," Tommy says, just as unhappily. "So, it's not forever, but—we can't keep hiring people and bringing them to our podcast dorm room, it's not practical. And it's not a good look. And—"

"And if we're going to be here a few more months," Lovett interrupts, "we need a better—"

"A better way to pee?"

"I talked to the office across the way, but they were, ah, not receptive to letting our staff use their washroom no matter the price." Jon shrugs.

"Republicans?" Tommy asks.

"I think just they do coke in there," Jon says. "Anyway, that's a no-go."

"Unless we get them coke. Let's not rule it out entirely. This is a rough situation, we gotta think outside the box." Lovett writes, in block letters, COKE FOR TOILETS? "What else?"

"Other than turning our staff into drug mules?" Tommy says.

"That is not the sort of attitude I'm looking for here, Thomas." Lovett brandishes the marker at him. "Where's your, your, entrepreneurial spirit?"

"Literally putting a Porta-Potty in the parking lot is a better idea than that," Tommy says. "Peeing in the kitchen sink is a better idea than that."

Jon says, "That might work."

Lovett swivels to give Jon his full, disapproving attention. "The kitchen sink. In the kitchen. Where we eat."

"Urine is sterile," Jon says, but it’s weak. He’s definitely being cowed by Lovett’s look.

"Actually, once it leaves the bladder—" Tommy starts, and then shuts his mouth when they both turn to glare at him.

"Regardless! No one is peeing in the kitchen sink." Lovett stops and drinks. Reminds himself they used to work at the White House. "We're the _bosses_. We have to come up with something or we're just as bad as the fucking electrician who won't fix the AC."

Tommy makes a face. "You won’t like this idea."

"Try us," Favs tells him, drily. "Is it better than trading cocaine for bathroom passes?"

Tommy shrugs. "Just—we’re the bosses. Probably we should be the ones who don’t tie up an employee resource."

Favs and Lovett stare at him.

"So you're saying, what, we should hold it for great justice?" Lovett considers it. "You're right, I don't like it." He doesn't like anything about this conversation, from its necessity to the way Jon and Tommy are taking it in stride, if a particular kind of well-mannered embarrassed bro-y stride. "But I like it more than the idea of _peeing where we eat_." Favs makes a noise of protest. "What would that look like, logistically? We just, what... don't?"

Tommy shrugs. "I mean, we've all managed long car trips or whatever. We'll drink less coffee. We'll restrict your LaCroix supply, Lovett."

"I already hate this," Lovett says, but he's unhappily realizing it might actually be the only good option yet on the table. "Can we at least rope Tanya and the C-suite into it with us?"

"Do _you_ want to have that conversation with Tanya?" Tommy's face says that he very much thinks otherwise. "And that doesn't seem fair, honestly."

Jon, ready as always to be earnest about something, chimes in. "Yeah, I don't think we can ask that of them. Probably it should just be—us." He's gone very pink around the cheeks. Good Catholic boys probably don't talk about peeing at work. Probably they're not supposed to pee at all. Bodily functions are probably sinful somehow. Lovett wouldn't know.

"At least that gets it down to thirteen people and one bathroom," Lovett says, reluctantly.

"It’s a start," Tommy agrees.

"It’ll certainly be motivation to find new offices." Jon looks away. "So. Next agenda item?"

***

The thing is, it's not like they can just _not_ use the bathroom at all. That would be untenable. They're there for more than eight hours a day and with the AC unreliable, they definitely have to drink _something_ or Emily starts sending them sternly worded messages about dehydration. They just have to... limit it. Just regular adult people in charge of a company having to keep an eye on how often they pee. The stuff dreams are made of.

Tommy gives up early on day one. Lovett doesn't know why—although the empty venti cup on Tommy's desk is a clue—but he immediately goes to the founders-only slack channel to harangue him about it.

_Unacceptable, Thomas. What kind of example are you setting for our employees?_

Jon, who is not in the bathroom and is surrounded by screens, gets back to Lovett first. _They don't even know we agreed to do this._

 _Still_ , Lovett types. _He's tying up company resources._

Lovett looks again at the empty coffee cup on Tommy's desk and then at his own half-finished one. He adds, _and so early on._

Jon sends back, _We should have thought of a forfeit._

Tommy crosses back from the bathroom, a spring in his step. The bastard. He sits back down and opens his laptop, reads, and then looks over at Lovett and then at Jon. He types.

_It's not a bet, guys. It's just a thing we're trying to do. How far exactly are we supposed to take this?_

Lovett scoffs, and then scoffs louder so Tommy will definitely hear him. Tommy's arguably the most competitive of the three of them when they get going, giving Lovett a real run for his money. _That's rich._

 _We are not making this a bet_ , Favs interjects. _Everybody take it down a notch._

 _You just know you'd lose,_ Lovett says, and watches Favs' eyes narrow as he reads it.

Favs is so easy sometimes. _I'd lose?_ he sends. _Sure, it's my desk covered in empty diet coke cans. Oh wait. That's yours._

_Meaning I have TRAINED for this. I'm READY. You're an amateur. This is basically my sports._

He hits send, then makes a face to himself. _Okay, the heat of competition may have made me overstate that. I don't regularly do this. This is weird. The point is, now that we are doing this, I will win._

 _You're on_ , Tommy sends, just before Jon sends the same. Predictable, the both of them

They haven't set stakes, which is always the most dangerous kind of bet with Tommy, especially, but Lovett actually _does_ have work to do—unlike everyone else in this company, he has to write a whole comedy show every week—so he drops it and focuses back on his work.

***

Things get... more challenging later, when Lovett reaches the end of a thought, finishes a paragraph, and shoves his headphones down to tune back into the office. He tunes back into himself too, and his mouth is dry but he's prepared to try and ignore it.

It's much less easy to ignore the way he needs to pee. He looks over at Jon, and thinks he sees the same problem there: Jon's making little faces, and he's moving on his chair like he might be tightening some muscles in his thighs and his ass. Lovett doesn't think he'd notice most of it if he didn't know—hopefully the same is true of their employees—but since he does, it's pretty obvious.

Tommy, the cheater, looks absolutely fine.

But then, Tommy always has been better at concealing things than Lovett, and _way_ better than Jon, who shows everything on his face the second it crosses his mind. Maybe Tommy is suffering too. Maybe behind that stoicism and posture is a tortured soul.

Tommy looks up, catches him staring. Lovett makes a face at him, and Tommy looks down, typing. _Niagara Falls. Ocean waves. Firehoses._

"Fuck you, Tommy," Lovett says, and several employees look up. "Just a joke between us, everyone get back to your, uh, whatever you were doing!"

Tanya gives him a suspicious look, but that doesn't mean anything. Tanya is naturally suspicious. Totally unwarranted.

 _Fuck you, Tommy_ , Lovett types, for good measure, and tries to take his mind off it.

Jon gets up a half hour later, and Lovett snaps his head up, watching Jon go to the kitchen.

Jon had _better_ not sneak into the bathroom. If Lovett's going to be this uncomfortable, they are _all_ going to be this uncomfortable. Jon looks it, too, coming back with crackers and nothing liquid. He looks... the only word Lovett can think of is "squirmy," like a puppy. Like a very uncomfortably full-bladdered puppy.

He sits down kind of gingerly too, like he's not sure where to settle his weight, making a face as he scoots his chair under the desk again. Lovett is—fine about it. He can feel his own face heating up, but that's just—it's weird, doing this; it takes them into a weird places that they don't usually go. Their bets aren't usually... like this.

He usually doesn't have to think about whether Jon and Tommy are getting slightly hard, the way he is, from the pressure or whatever. He _doesn't_ look. He wouldn't be able to tell, anyway. Probably. Maybe on Tommy.

Tommy has a bigger dick than Jon, is the extent of Lovett's knowledge there, and that's not something he set out to learn, it's just—Tommy's dick is that big. It's more difficult _not_ to know that. Jon is shyer, too, even if Tommy blushes faster. God. This is—not helping.

He's more than slightly hard, now. This is _not_ what this whole thing was supposed to do. He signed on for crossing his legs, not for thinking about his grandmother.

Across the room, Jon shifts again. Next to him, Tommy looks pinker than usual, and he's clenching and releasing his fist.

Pundit is asleep in the other room, sprawled out over the couch, and Lovett spares a second to be grateful, just for once, that she isn't in his lap, paws everywhere. Jon shifts again, clears his throat.

If he—If _Jon_ goes to the bathroom, then one of them has _lost_ , and it wouldn't be Lovett.

He sends a DM to Jon. _Struggling, are we?_

Jon looks up to glare at him. "Tommy, don't you think someone should grab Lovett a Diet Coke? He looks parched."

"I do think that," Tommy agrees, but he doesn't get up. Hmm. "Anyone want to grab Lovett a Diet Coke from the fridge?"

"No," Tanya says, without looking up. "No one wants that."

This is possibly the first time Lovett has ever been pleased not to be brought stuff. He types, _cheater!!!_ , and then considers whether he can look for gifs of waterfalls, or whether that would be self-defeating.

It's—look, he's only one man, and it's difficult, sitting there, thinking about something they all need that none of them are letting themselves do. It's, you know. Evocative.

His computer clock hits 5:52. Good fucking enough. "Later!" he announces, swinging his laptop under his arm and his bag over his shoulder. He whistles for Pundit, who comes trotting out to meet him by the door, and he clips her leash on with shaking fingers. He’s gone before anyone says anything to him, racing home, thinking _this is not why I started a business_.

***

The next day, he's more prepared. He's going to _do this_. He buys Jon and Tommy both coffee on his way into the office, and smiles sweetly at them when they both look pleased, and then resignedly suspicious.

He gets a Slack message. _Slick move from the guy who ran like a bat out of hell yesterday before it even hit six_.

Oh, Jon's testy this morning.

 _I'm not the one who was practically dancing in his chair,_ Lovett sends back.

 _Did you even make it all the way home?_ he adds, feeling petty.

Between the two of them, Tommy is staring at his coffee like the choice between drinking it and not drinking it has much worse consequences than losing a bet.

_Are you suggesting I pissed myself in my car, Lovett? Because it's not middle school, those taunts don't really work on me anymore_

Lovett _didn't_ mean to suggest that, but now he's sort of under assault by the image of it.

Jon, racing traffic, fighting his body. Jon slowly realising—he's not going to last. More than that, hitting Lovett in the gut: Jon, desperate, breath coming faster, fidgeting for relief.

Okay, fuck.

He clears his throat, carefully does _not_ shift in his chair. _I absolutely did not mean that. Talk about a lack of imagination. There are many public restrooms between here and your home, Jonathan._

Thinking about it, none of them suggested that as an option. There are public bathrooms near the office. They could pee on a coffee run.

Tommy maybe realises this. He drinks the coffee Lovett brought, long leg jittering like he's nervous.

 _Public restrooms are cheating, anyway,_ Lovett amends.

Tommy glares at his laptop screen, types. _How? We said we wouldn't use the office bathroom, not any bathroom._

_SOME of us are glued to our desks writing comedy, Thomas. It's not fair for you to exercise your extra freedoms when we can't._

_SOME of us work faster than others,_ Tommy sends. _Maybe try that._

 _It's called delayed anticipation,_ Lovett types. _Maybe try **that**_.

Jon's head comes up, suddenly enough that it draws Lovett's eye. He leans in and types, looking very much like he's trying to hide his laptop screen from Tanya.

_Excuse me, just to be clear, Lovett, are you suggesting you're getting some kind of benefit out of anticipating peeing? Because this just crossed a workplace line._

_That is not what I was suggesting, Jonathan_ , Lovett types, loftily. _Is that something you're experiencing? Is that why you couldn't keep still yesterday? The podcaster doth protesth...eth too much?_

Tommy types, glaring down at his keyboard. _I literally don't even know what you guys are talking about, but it's weird._

 _You SO do know_ , Lovett types back, and then has a sinking feeling he's revealed a little too much. He's not even entirely sure what it is he thinks he's just given away, but it feels eerily reminiscent of the dread that followed a too-fey hand gesture at Syosset Middle School.

He tabs away from the Slack chat, and doesn't look around. The notification dings in his headphones a couple times—he only have sounds turned on for a couple of Slack channels, so he knows it has to be Jon or Tommy—but he ignores it. He just—needs a second. It's stupid, but what can you do.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and he tabs back.

 _You DO know, Tom,_ Jon has written. _Don't pretend you don't like to wait sometimes_.

 _Well, you like to watch,_ Tommy has written, and Lovett has to blink a few times before any of that makes any sense at all. What the fuck is he reading? Is he reading this—wrong? He sneaks a look around: Jon and Tommy both have their heads bent, the pictures of hard work, but Tommy is faintly pink, and Jon's laptop is turned completely away from Tanya.

It would be easy, he thinks, to tone this right back down. All he needs to do is drop a quick joke, and they'll stop. He's seen it before. If he goes in there all "dear diary," he won't have to hear about any of this again.

He... doesn't want to do that. Which is scary in and of itself, and he can't even go hide in the bathroom trying to figure out what the hell is going on with his brain right now.

He closes the Slack window. Reopens it. Closes it. Reopens it.

Neither of them have said anything, like they're waiting to follow his lead. He puts his fingers back on the keyboard, rereads the last messages over again. They don't _sound_ like he should be waiting for the other shoe to fall.

 _Lovett?_ Jon sends, always cautious about friendship, and Lovett makes the decision, types, _What does Jon like to watch?_

Tommy clears his throat, shifts his shoulders. Bites his lip. Lovett shouldn't be staring, but he is, and he thinks Jon might be, too.

 _Probably shouldn't be telling Chicago stories_ , Tommy sends, finally.

 _Pretty sure you should be telling all the Chicago stories,_ Lovett sends, and hears Jon make a startled noise. He turns it, badly, into clearing his throat.

Tommy types, hesitantly at first and then faster. _Jon was drunk this one time—okay, we were both drunk this one time—and I went into the bathroom to take a leak and then he was at the doorway suddenly, I guess I didn't lock it. And he just stared at me. Like, AT me. Ahem. and I finally was like "Jon? You okay there buddy?" or some shit and he like_

 _he LIKE WHAT, VIETOR_ Lovett sends back, furiously

He has to shift in his chair, but that's fine. That's what he does. He's never been more glad that he doesn't sit still often, that no one's going to think anything of it if he draws a knee up, or sits weird. When he glances at Tommy again, Tommy is biting his lip.

 _He like_ , Tommy sends, _he like. Touched. Himself. Really quick._

Lovett is going to die. He's going to get hard and die in his place of work.

He can't make himself look at Jon. He wants to—he _really_ wants to know what the hell Jon's face is doing right now, if he's horrified or excited or what. But he's not typing, and he's not getting up to storm out, either.

Lovett types, _that's pretty gay_ , then erases it. He types _and then you repressed it like straight bros do,_ and erases it.

He types just _Hot_ and hits enter before he can stop himself.

Jon is typing. Jon is typing. Jon is typing for fucking ever.

Lovett forces himself not to click away from Slack. He doesn't look round at Tommy or Jon, just stares at the screen.

 _Really?_ Jon sends, after a fucking eternity. _Do you really mean it?_

 _It’s a dear diary joke_ , Tommy sends, and Lovett stares at the screen. All he has to do is agree with Tommy, and that’s it. No weirdness, no—no whatever the adult equivalent of middle-school trauma might turn out to be, hitting on his best friends and business partners.

Except... they kind of hit on him, first.

 _Suppose I do mean it,_ he types, and then erases the first word. _I do mean it_.

Jon, across the room, chokes again, and doesn't manage to turn it into anything.

"I'm fine," he says, as Tanya goes to get him a drink. "I'm really okay," but Lovett is just staring at the screen, waiting. He can't look round at Jon. He can't look round at anyone.

He can hear Tommy typing.

 _It was hot_ , Tommy sends, and Lovett does turn round at that, has to, has to see Tommy's face just to be—sure that this isn't somehow an elaborate—an elaborate something. Tommy is pink all the way up to his hairline, and—nervous, visibly, obviously.

It’s not even eleven in the morning. Lovett has to get through a whole workday—he has to write _jokes_ today. Jokes that aren’t about sex.

Regular jokes that aren't about his best friends suddenly talking about things they've never mentioned. That aren't about anyone making themselves wait for anything, desperate and needing and—

 _is that okay?_ Tommy sends.

Lovett doesn’t know if that’s for him. Maybe. The chain of messages is staring at him. Jon’s the one who—Jon’s the one who stared at Tommy. Jon should say something, shouldn’t he? Or—Lovett doesn’t fucking know.

 _Who are you asking?_ Lovett types, when Jon doesn’t reply.

 _Both of you_ , Tommy sends. _I don't want to make this weird_.

 _It's pretty fucking weird on its own,_ Lovett sends. _You're just making it better._ He stares at it, and doesn't delete it. Hits send.

 _I like it,_ Jon sends. Lovett turns abruptly, catches Tommy doing the same thing. Jon doesn't look up but he clearly knows he's being looked at: he squirms under the attention, like he always does.

Lovett chews on his lip, thinks. Types, _This is exceptionally weird but uh I'm still into it_. After he hits send, he realizes that's not necessarily as clear as he wants, adds, _Not the watching Tommy piss part, specifically. Not a thing I'm that into. Watching Jon **not** piss is weirdly doing it for me, though. Is that too weird? You gotta tell me if that's too weird._

 _It's a bit weird,_ Tommy sends. _But it's doing it for me too._

They both look at Jon. Jon, pink eared, picks up the water Tanya brought him and slowly, deliberately, takes a drink.

Lovett needs to be not having any of these reactions in front of their employees. He needs to—

 _What are the odds we can work from home the rest of the day without it causing problems? Alternative strategy for keeping the bathroom free for staff_ , Lovett sends

 _Resourceful,_ Tommy sends. _Founders afternoon at Lovett's?_

Lovett thinks about it. The three of them at his place, with this new thing between them. Maybe—Jon said he liked it, the two of them watching him. Maybe they could look properly, if they weren't... here.

He whistles for Pundit. "Okay, we’re freeing up the bathrooms by taking our laptops out of the office. Ping us if you need anything."

He supposes he should have waited for Jon’s response, but Jon’s closing his laptop, too, and reaching for his bag and Leo’s leash. Tommy’s getting up, too, bag already slung across his chest, hands in his pockets.

It makes Lovett think—of course it makes him wonder if Tommy is hard, the way Tommy's hands are deep in his pockets, stretching the fabric.

He's mostly keeping it together, but he wants to get gone. He doesn't wait for Jon to finish packing; he heads right out, onto the landing outside the office door. They'll follow. He's quite sure, at this point, that they'll follow.

Tommy's first out behind him. The door shuts, and Tommy says, "Um—when you say _work_ from home—"

"We can work," Lovett says, just to be careful. He feels full up on nervous energy, can't hold it all in, like he should be pacing the hallway. "Or—"

Tommy takes a breath. He looks so _good_ , fucking hell. Pink and focused on Lovett. Lovett needs—he needs this either to happen, or to stop.

"I like or," Tommy says, hands still jammed in his pockets. "Or sounds really fucking good."

Lovett’s just about to say something—probably along the lines of "this is so fucking weird"—when Jon comes outside, Leo in his arms.

"Uh," he says. "Are we, um. Carpooling?"

Lovett needs there to be an option for one or all of them to get the fuck out if something goes—if this is a colossal mistake. He needs a cut and run option.

"We'll take our cars," he says, and watches understanding happen on Tommy's awful caring face.

"Meet at Lovett's?" Tommy says, before Jon can take up the car issue any further. "And we'll, like. Talk."

Pundit's pulling towards the stairs, so Lovett just nods and follows her down them, and doesn't wait for Jon and Tommy to reach the parking lot before he's getting Pundit into the passenger seat and driving off.

He wonders, if he beats them to his house, if _he's_ allowed to pee, at this point. If they've all somehow sort of decided that it's Jon who's the one they're... making get squirmy.

He does beat them both there, has enough time to let Pundit out in the yard to do her thing and then herd her back inside before Tommy pulls up second.

"We get to, uh," Lovett says, gesturing over his shoulder at the bathroom. "Right? Just... not... Jon?"

Tommy's face says _I don't understand what's even happening_. Lovett entirely agrees. "I... guess so," he says. "Yeah." And then, slower, "Unless we, um. Unless Jon wanted to, like. Watch."

"Does he, uh," Lovett says, "like that? Like, outside of being drunk and seeing a dick?"

Seeing _Tommy's_ dick.

Jon's car pulls up too.

"I don't know," Tommy says, as they both watch Jon get out of the car, walk to the front door. Tommy is going a deeper pink again, never settled back to a baseline pale. "I know he likes to watch, you know, generally. Things."

"You're gonna need to tell me how you know that," Lovett says. "I guess—I guess you can tell me in front of Jon, right?"

Tommy swallows. "Yeah, I guess so."

"This is weird, right?" Lovett asks, finally. "I mean. Good weird. That's not an objection. Just, you know."

"Good weird," Tommy agrees, and they open the door for Jon.

Jon has his hands in his pockets and Leo sniffing around his ankles.

"Uh," he says. "Hi."

"Hi," Lovett says. "You have a key, you know, you can just let yourself in."

"I didn't know if—" Jon says, and cuts himself off, and shakes his head, and comes in. The dogs run off into the house together. Tommy is looking at Jon, waiting for him.

Jon's not saying anything. Lovett's never been fantastic with awkward silences.

"Tommy and I were just discussing if we're allowed to pee now," he announces, too loud in the still of the hallway. "Or if, like. We should wait for you to get here so you could watch."

Tommy presses a thumb to his brow. Lovett has a suspicion that other people don't inspire that gesture as often as he does.

"You didn't have to wait," Jon says, but he shifts his weight, not looking at them, and they've all been friends long enough to know each other's tells.

"Sure," Lovett says, and pushes it. "But we wanted to know if you _wanted_ to watch."

"I ..." Jon stops, crosses his arms. "You don't have to."

"That means yes," Lovett interprets. He hums, considering. "Do you want more than watching? Like—we're all in the Trump era, if you're into golden showers you can tell us. I'm not gonna veto."

Jon covers his face with his hands, and Lovett hears a strangled laugh from behind them. "Oh my god. No, I'm—that's not—no. Thank you. No."

"But you do want to watch?" Lovett presses. "Like, both of us?"

Jon doesn't uncover his face but, slowly, he nods.

Lovett lets out a breath. "Okay," he says.

He turns to Tommy. "That's okay, right? That's—we can do that."

Tommy nods, jerkily. "Uh, at the same time, or?"

"No, you—I mean, whatever," Jon says. "God. We really don't have to do this."

"What if we want to?" Tommy says. "What if we want to, with you?"

"What Tommy is saying is, we do want to," Lovett tells them. "I think. I do. I think Tommy does. This weird fucking thing—if we all want it, we can do it."

"And we, uh, do," Tommy concludes. "So."

"So," Lovett agrees, and gestures towards his guest bathroom, which is bigger than the master and more likely to be spotless. "Um. Dibs on going first?"

"That's probably better," Tommy says. "I'm gonna need a minute to like... prepare."

Lovett glances down at Tommy's crotch, sees what he means. He's liable to have the same problem if he keeps thinking about it, about Tommy getting hard over all of this. "We can always put you and Jon in the shower if you can't get it down," he says, trying to turn it into a joke. "As long as you don't think you'll hit the ceiling."

"I can try," Tommy says, "but let's try... the usual way first."

"Nothing about this is usual," Lovett says, but he goes to the bathroom, hears Jon and Tommy follow.

The weirdness really only sets in properly when he's in there, hands in front of his flies.

"It's good I'm going first," he says, because it's easier to pop his button when he's talking. "The whole, uh. You know, it's easier to be the guy getting looked at than the guy who looks. In that I'm not the one who gets punched in the public restroom. Not that I'm going to punch anyone, obviously. Just—never mind."

The thing is, Lovett's not exactly new to the concept of showing off his dick. It's been a fairly significant feature of his life since the smartphone was invented and suddenly every man in the country decided dick pics were their primary method of communication.

He just... he's certainly never pulled it out soft—mostly soft—to show off. This isn't his dick at its absolute best.

He thinks about saying, and decides not to say, and then actually does say, "This is it, my dick."

"We can see that," Tommy says. He sounds kind of strangled; Lovett can't bring himself to look round at him to see if that's good or not just yet.

Lovett doesn't have a shy bladder, but then again, he's not sure he's ever had to pee with someone actively and intentionally watching him, for sex reasons. It's a slightly different matter.

"Uh, just might need a moment," he says, and Jon lets out a little noise that does make him look up.

Jon looks—if he was squirmy before, this is way better than that. He looks like he's trying to force physical control on himself in six different ways—legs crossed where he's leaned against the tile, teeth deep in his bottom lip, arms crossed and hands fisted. He looks like he might go off if Lovett so much as touched his arm. Lovett's not sure _how_ he'd go off, but that part suddenly seems less important. Anything that would make Jon _give_ seems like it would be the hottest thing in the world right now.

"I, uh," Lovett manages, and then he can, can do it, turns back to piss and make sure his aim is right. Behind him, Jon makes another noise, higher, and Lovett just wills himself not to get hard yet, just, not yet.

It's not quite Austin Powers, but it goes on for a while. Jon's certainly getting plenty to watch. He wonders if Tommy's watching, too, or just waiting. If he can watch Tommy, or if that's too weird.

He finishes, shakes. Tucks himself back in, even though it feels a little silly. "Uh—you're up," he tells Tommy, turning back towards them.

Jon has grabbed Tommy's hand at some point, tight; their fingers are linked together between them. Jon is breathing rapidly, legs still crossed. Tommy is gentle when he pulls away.

"Okay?" Tommy says, and Jon nods, a little shakily. "Here, Lovett, you take him."

Lovett feels both lighter and more turned on now that his bladder isn't nagging at him, pulling focus. It's easier to let himself take in the way Jon is twisted, the way he looks like he's been given something he wants, and is ashamed of wanting.

He takes Jon's hand, squeezes it. Shuts down the urge to make Jon reassure him, tell him it was hot. Jon's clearly more in need of reassurance than Lovett is, at the moment. "Let's watch together," he says, instead. "Would it be hotter if Tommy got naked first?"

Jon shakes his head. "It's—more real like this," he says, voice so swallowed it's hard to hear.

"Yeah? That's cool." Lovett squeezes his hand again. "Tommy's letting us watch, look." Tommy is side on to them, unzipping his jeans. He's _big_ when he gets his dick out, even mostly soft.

Lovett whistles, mostly just to make Tommy blush. "My, my."

"Not helping," Tommy says, and then starts pissing. This part is definitely less Lovett's thing, except that Jon's gone stiff beside him, fingers squeezing Lovett's hand tight enough to hurt. Jon's _very_ into this, and that's about as hot as it gets.

Lovett's never watched someone piss before, not, like, intentionally. It's not objectively hot, or subjectively doing it for him, but there's a feeling of dirty intimacy about it, a private act being laid bare. Maybe that's what Jon likes about it. Tommy says he likes to watch.

Right now, what Lovett likes is: Jon, getting off on this. Tommy, wanting Jon to get off on this. Tommy, wanting something else—Lovett's not sure what, yet, but he really wants to find out. Jon, squirming in desperation, to piss or to come or for some third thing, who knows.

Lovett's never thought of himself as the toppiest of men, but it's hard not to picture making Jon _beg_ for what he wants, when he looks like this.

He bets Tommy could make that happen. Tommy has a good voice for it, low and clear and expecting to be listened to. Fuck. He wants to hear that, wants to watch Jon react.

Tommy finishes, shakes himself—Jon's grip gets somehow tighter—and does himself back up, turning back with a sheepish half smile, pink to his hairline.

"Better, right?" Lovett says, so Jon doesn't have to say anything. "Sucks that Jon has to wait."

Jon says, "I could just—" but Tommy's on the same page as Lovett, stepping between Jon and the toilet.

"No, you can't," Tommy tells him, with a slight, dirty smile on his face. "You have to wait."

"Oh god," Jon breathes. "Gonna—you want me to wait? For you?"

Holy shit.

Jon is still squeezing Lovett's hand, long fingers wrapped around his, and it's—evocative.

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Yeah, Jon. You should wait for us. Until—until Tommy tells you."

Tommy glances up at Lovett when he says that, like he's surprised, but he straightens out his face quickly. "Yeah."

"What, uh," Jon says, and stops. Thinks. "What are you going to be doing while you're making me wait?"

Lovett's too busy thinking about how hot the question is to answer it, but Tommy, apparently, has already thought about this. "Lovett and I are gonna fool around," he says, glancing at Lovett and then looking back to Jon. "And you're gonna watch."

"Watch?" Jon repeats. His legs are still crossed, his voice uneven.

Tommy looks at Lovett, and whatever he sees on his face must assuage any nerves. "Just watch," he says. "And we're gonna—Lovett, can I—kiss you?"

"Yes," Lovett says, rough-voiced. Tommy steps forward— "Let's not do this in the bathroom," Lovett suddenly decides.

"Right, yeah, good—yeah," Tommy says. "Yeah." He isn't moving. Lovett should have just let him, but whatever, he'll get Tommy going again once they get into the guest bedroom, which is _definitely_ cleaner than Lovett's is, and with fresher sheets.

He expects Jon to—well, he doesn't know what he expects Jon to do, but it isn't to hold Lovett's hand the whole way there. Lovett knows this side of Jon—unsure; ashamed—but he's never seen it like this, this up close.

The bed seems suddenly much bigger, the focus of the room, when all three of them are in there.

There's a chair in the corner; they could sit Jon there, Lovett thinks. Tommy must have other ideas, though, because he points Jon up towards the headboard. "Better get comfortable," he says. "Might be a while."

Jon squeezes Lovett's hand before he lets go; Lovett doesn't know if it's for Lovett or for himself. Either way, Lovett likes it.

Tommy takes his time stepping closer to Lovett. He's not quite meeting Lovett's eyes, but his gaze keeps darting to Lovett's mouth, and that's good enough for now.

Lovett represses the urge to fidget, or to jam his hands in his pockets. "You gonna?" he asks, watching Tommy, heartrate picking up, and Tommy steps carefully into his space, and kisses him.

One of Tommy's big hands is tilting Lovett's face up gently, and his mouth is gentle too, and Lovett feels himself give into it, swaying towards Tommy's broad chest.

Lovett would be lying if he said he hasn't thought about this. Mostly, it wasn't intentional; he doesn't sit around daydreaming or jerking off over his straight friends. That's a self-defeating urge he got over in high school. But he _notices_ them. He notices Tommy's biceps in his shirts, and the way Tommy's shorts fit across his hips and his ass. He'd noticed Tommy's mouth.

Tommy's mouth, which is actually kissing him in his guest bedroom in the middle of the day, with Jon watching them from the pillows. "This is so weird," Lovett mumbles, and Tommy pulls back, lets go of him.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, no, come back here," Lovett says, grabbing for him. "You're doing great, you're not going anywhere."

Lovett has to stretch to kiss him, going up on tiptoes in his socks, and this time Tommy makes a soft noise, echoed by Jon, astonished, from the bed.

Tommy kisses soft and sweet, at first, and then with more intent as Lovett's grip on his arms tightens. This is—this is nothing like what Lovett could have let himself imagine, nothing at all.

"We could lie down," Lovett says, between kisses, and then Tommy's pushing him down onto the bed, crawling up over him, like some dam has broken. Tommy's insistent, now, pressing and biting at Lovett's mouth, and then at his jaw, and then at his neck. "Oh, that's—yeah," Lovett says. His eyes skim the ceiling, and then he's looking at Jon, upside down. "This doing it for you?"

"Uh—yes," Jon says, nervous but definite.

He shifts against the headboard. "Is it—do you like it? Uh, do you like that I'm watching?"

If Tommy shifts an inch over, he'll be able to tell Jon just how much Lovett likes it.

"I like that you're waiting," Tommy says, before Lovett can find an answer. "I like that you're, um. Behaving yourself."

" _Jesus_ ," Jon mutters, voice shaking. "That's—yeah. Fuck. That's good, that's, um. We're on the same page about that."

Lovett figures that's pretty much answered everybody's questions, and he'd like Tommy's attention back, now. "I'd like Tommy to bite my neck some more," he says, helpfully.

"Oh, you would, would you?" Tommy says, and Lovett is about to brat back that, yes he would, when Tommy does, nips at the thin skin between Lovett's shoulder and his throat, just hard enough to make Lovett gasp properly, grab at Tommy's back to keep him there. "Oh, fuck, fucking—yeah, like that," Lovett gets out, and Tommy stifles a noise against his skin. Lovett can't—can't let that keep happening. "Let us hear you, Tommy, c'mon."

"Jon wants to hear you, doesn't—don't you, Jon?"

"Yes," Jon gasps. "Yes, fuck." He shifts, and Lovett looks back to see him sitting on his hands, like he has to physically stop himself from—from doing any of the stuff he's not allowed to do, yet.

Jon's wearing jeans and the way he's sitting isn't doing anything to help disguise how hard he is. Lovett is struck again with how he's allowed to _look_ now, rather than averting his eyes if a bro around him gets an inconvenient boner. Jon wants him to look. He's hard because—because of—

Lovett digs his stubby nails into Tommy's back, needing to hear him groan.

Tommy makes some kind of noise, at least, and Lovett pulls him up to kiss again, harsher. Tommy’s hips grind down into his. "Want to see you," Lovett says, and then, inspired, " _both_ of you, fuck. Can Jon pull his dick out? Can we, will you let him do that?"

Tommy says, "Don’t know how I got elected the king of—whatever this is. Yeah. Yeah, Jon, pull it out. Let Lovett look at you."

Jon has to shift to free his hands and he fumbles with his fly, unzipping and reaching down to shove his jeans a little way down, far enough for him to get his dick out. It's—thinner than Lovett's, and flushed hard; Jon's eyes flutter shut when he touches it and even upside-down Lovett can see his expression twist, holding off.

Lovett aches to touch. He wants to see Jon naked, now, but there’s something delicious about him sitting there in all his clothes with his dick out, too.

"That’s really fucking hot," Lovett says, and Jon makes a noise and lets go, shoving his hands back under his thighs.

"So hot, Jon," Tommy says, his voice coming out rough. "So hot that you—that you're waiting for us."

Lovett grinds his hips up. "Tommy," he says. "Tommy, get your fucking dick out too, let me see."

"Are we, is—just reducing us to our erections, now, Lovett?" Tommy says, but he’s sitting up and opening his pants.

"I can objectify the rest of you, too," Lovett tells him, and yanks at the hem of Tommy’s shirt.

Tommy snorts a laugh, tugs his shirt off over his head one-handed like a straight boy. Lovett would comment, but he's distracted—Tommy is big and broad and well-defined, freckles all over his big broad well-defined chest, and when Lovett looks up again, Tommy is making a sheepish expression like, well, this is it, and Lovett has to drag him down and kiss him again, hard, to show him just how stupid that is.

"Very objectifiable," Lovett tells him, or tries; Tommy’s kissing him back, enough to disrupt much attempt at talking. There’s so much _skin_ to touch, now, acres of it, warm and smooth under Lovett’s fingers.

Lovett's fully aware he can lose himself when he's making out, can sometimes let himself tip too soon into a floatier headspace, especially with someone on top of him like this, strong and warm and holding him down. Tommy kisses him again, kisses down his neck and bites at his collarbone, stretching the neck of Lovett's t-shirt. Lovett makes an undignified noise and, above him, Jon whimpers. When Lovett stretches to look at him, Jon wriggles, blushing.

"We're killing Jon," Lovett says, and even his voice sounds different. He wonders what Tommy will say, if he'll notice. If he'll like it, the way his body and his mouth are making Lovett sound stoned. "He's dying up there."

"I think it's a good death," Tommy says, and then, to Jon, "Do you need anything? Water?"

"God, don't even say 'water,'" Jon says, and he sounds like he means it. "Just. You should, um. You could hold Lovett down more."

"Fuck," Lovett says, "you should, you really should," and he arches deliberately, puts his wrists over his head like an invitation.

"Subtle," Jon says, which really cements Lovett's growing view that Jon is a lot less vanilla than he'd been assuming up until about 10:20 this morning.

Tommy, though, just runs a hand up Lovett's arm until he's holding Lovett's wrists. "Like this?" he asks, and Lovett nods, tries not to look frantic. "I can do that."

"You definitely can," Lovett agrees, fervently. "You're definitely doing that."

Tommy laughs, and presses Lovett's wrists harder into the bed. Lovett's hips buck without his conscious control.

"You like that," Tommy breathes, against Lovett's neck, easily keeping his grip on Lovett's wrists. Lovett can't help but squirm. "Fuck, you really—Jon, can you see? You see how much Lovett likes it?"

"Mmhmm," Jon manages, high-pitched, and Lovett cranes his neck to see Jon shudder, dick twitching.

"I hope the team's not trying to reach us," Tommy says, "Because, like. I'm not letting either of you up until I want to."

Lovett sucks in a long breath. "Okay, you can't just say things like that," he tells Tommy. "That's too hot. Like, that is unacceptably—"

Tommy moves his hand from Lovett's wrists to Lovett's mouth, muffling the end of his sentence. "Oh, I'm gonna like this," he says, grinning down at Lovett.

Lovett tries to bite him automatically, and then, when Tommy doesn't move, just licks him obnoxiously. It's hard to articulate, ironically, how being gagged makes him feel—hot and good and squirmy, for an instant, from the control of it, and then cooler, metallic in the back of his throat. He could play around with it, maybe, but not—not right now. Tommy must see it on his face, moves his hand.

"What were you saying?" Tommy says, and Lovett grins back up at him, helpless.

"I’m taking it back," he asserts, fighting down a smile. "Nothing hot whatsoever. Right, Jon?"

"Uhh," Jon says. Lovett looks back to see Jon eyeing his own erection. "I may have credibility issues on that one."

"Don't touch," Tommy says, authoritatively, as Jon's hand twitches out from under his thigh. "You're not ready yet."

Jon exhales shakily. "Tommy, Jesus."

Tommy’s starting to look smug, if not precisely confident. Lovett wonders how long it would take him to be sure of himself with them. If they’re going to do this again, after today, and see Tommy get fucking great at it.

"Pay attention to me again," Lovett says, and Tommy laughs, flicks him on the earlobe.

"You’re such a monster," he says. "Take your pants off."

" _You_ take your pants off," Lovett says, because for all the dick talk earlier Tommy is still burdened with pants and unexposed to Lovett's gaze, but he's lifting his hips at the same time, letting Tommy pull at his pants, drag them over his ankles.

Lovett didn't get dressed this morning thinking his two best friends were going to strip him—he's wearing good but not great underwear, ones with a hole forming at the bottom of one leg—but Tommy is staring at him like he's something worth looking at, and looking at a lot.

"Fuck, Lovett," Tommy says, his voice going low and hoarse, and then, "Look at him, Jon. Don't you want to touch him?"

Tommy _is_ touching him, big hands roaming up Lovett's thighs. Lovett can barely stand it, can barely stay still. He wants Tommy to flick him again, to pinch his thighs and pin his wrists. 

Tommy isn’t psychic, apparently, and Lovett isn’t sure he’s going to enlighten him just yet. Tommy’s juggling some stuff already, between what turns out to be the two big nelly bottoms he runs a business with.

Lovett is probably not going to call Jon a big nelly bottom to his face, but the evidence seems pretty strong.

"Tommy," Lovett says, to get his attention back, wriggling obnoxiously. "Tommy, _you_ should touch me, c'mon," and Tommy rolls his eyes, fondly, and slides his hand up Lovett's inner thigh, up and up and up, stopping just short of his dick. Jon groans at the same time Lovett does, which, wow, is really fucking hot.

"You’re such a tease," Lovett tells him, breathless. "You’re so mean."

"Jesus," Jon mutters. He sounds overcome. "Jesus, _Jesus_."

"Not sure Jesus would sanction any of this," Lovett muses. "Hardly my area of expertise, though."

"I don't know," Tommy says, and he's almost matching Lovett's idle tone but for the way his breath is coming short, "there might be exceptions," and then—and _then_ Tommy is touching him, big hand cupping Lovett's balls in a way that doesn't usually do much for Lovett but right now, with Tommy looking at him so carefully and the sound of Jon catching his breath above him, is doing such a fucking lot.

"Jon likes it when you’re mean," Lovett tells Tommy, in case he somehow managed to miss that point. "Jon’s getting off on you being mean to me. This has worrying office implications."

Tommy kisses him, cutting off the flow of—Lovett can admit—babbling. He kisses him just fucking right, lingering, breath hot against Lovett’s lips.

Lovett groans into it, arches up again, pressing his wrists into the bed. He wants—he wants Tommy to keep doing this, to keep him here. He wants to turn and look at Jon properly, properly appreciate the state he's in. He wants to see how much Jon needs this.

Jon says, voice gruff, "Lovett wants you to pin him down again."

Tommy breaks off the kiss, and Lovett says, "Jon's my new favorite person ever."

Tommy narrows his eyes, and brings one hand up to grab Lovett's wrists while slowly, threateningly squeezing Lovett's balls with the other. "I take it back," Lovett amends. "I take it back, you're my favorite person. Jon's a distant second. Jon? Who's Jon? I don't even know a Jon."

Tommy feels so _good_ against him and he's not hesitant at all, just pins Lovett where he wants to be. When he leans in a little closer, Lovett's cock brushes Tommy's stomach and Lovett can't help but groan.

"What do you think Jon would like to watch?" Tommy whispers—frankly, outright fucking _purrs_ —in Lovett's ear. "I think—I think you could suck me off. I think he'd like watching that."

"Fuck," Jon says, emphatic, and Lovett wriggles some more, mostly for show.

"Yeah," he says, a little high-pitched as Tommy keeps kissing his neck. "Yeah, I bet he'd like that. Let me suck you off, Tommy, let me give you straight boys a show."

Straight might not be the word, but whatever. They can work that all out later, or any time that isn't now, with Tommy's hard-on pressing into Lovett's side and Jon sitting on his own hands. Lovett starts to tell Tommy to take his pants off, but remembers Jon saying _it's more real_ , bright red and so turned on in the bathroom, and reevaluates.

"Like this, Jon?" Lovett asks, looking up at him. "I could suck Tommy off just like this."

Jon wriggles. He doesn't look as enthused as Lovett was expecting. "Or... something else?" Lovett says, and then Tommy's turning to look, too.

"No, no, it's, it's fine. It's good," Jon says. "Yeah."

"Very convincing," Lovett says, and sits up.

Tommy pushes himself up too. "Hey, Jon," he says, and his forehead is doing that attractive concerned wrinkle it does. "We don't have to do anything, okay? We can—"

"No," Jon interrupts, and he's going a duller red again, fidgeting. "No, I—I want to, I don't want to stop."

Lovett tugs his t-shirt down futilely over his dick, just so he doesn't feel quite so exposed for this conversation. "You want me to suck you off instead?" he guesses.

"No, not—" Jon pulls his hands out from under his thighs and covers his face. "It’s nothing. God. Keep doing what you were doing. It’s fine."

"Going for slightly better than fine, here," Tommy tells him, gently. "Jon—tell us what you want. We want to make it good for you." He turns to Lovett, and Lovett nods assuringly.

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Also, whatever it is probably isn’t weirder than a mildly kinky watersports-tinged threesome with your business partners already is, so—"

Jon twitches, just slightly, and Lovett breaks off. _This_ part isn't the part he wants to be difficult for Jon. He knows him, has known him for years, has watched him freeze when someone's asked him for his favourite band, watched his lisp come back, barely noticeable, when he's flustered, all his way with words, his intellect and eloquence, disappearing if he's put on the spot about himself. But that twitch—the desperate way Jon had held himself tense in the bathroom—

"Is that it?" Lovett asks, and he's trying to keep his voice even and it must work, because Jon lowers his hands. "Is it—you want more of that?" He looks to Tommy, who nods, _keep going_. "The—the watersports stuff?"

"Please don't call it that," Jon says, very quietly, and something in Lovett leaps with excitement; he got it, he understood.

"Great. Terrific. We can do that," Lovett says. "Are we getting up to go, uh, watch you, now?" He thinks, _I’m gonna put my pants back on if we’re moving venues_.

Jon shakes his head, though. "No, just—the waiting is, um. The waiting is good."

Tommy gets to his knees, climbs up towards Jon. Lovett remembers, suddenly and viscerally, how much longer they’ve known each other. "You can tell me," Tommy says, voice as gentle as if he were talking to Lucca.

Jon is watching Tommy move closer, and Lovett thinks—fuck—his eyes are wet, shining as Tommy settles by his side. Lovett's gonna—he's gonna take his cue from Tommy here, maybe. He wants to know what Tommy will say.

Tommy puts his hand on Jon's thigh, the strip of it that's bare between his t-shirt and his shoved down pants. "Jon," Tommy says, again. "You can tell me, c'mon. Let me do it for you."

"I can’t," Jon says, and Lovett’s stomach feels weird, wondering if this has gotten too much for Jon. Too gay. Too—too much Lovett, when maybe what he wanted was just Tommy.

Jon’s hand reaches out to grab Tommy’s, pulls it to his own dick. Wait, no—to his stomach, just over his jeans.

"Just—press?" Tommy says, in response to something Lovett doesn’t see or hear. Jon nods, and then his face is screwing up, needy and wanting.

So. Possibly Lovett’s overthinking things. Possibly Jon just needed some stimulation.

Tommy is watching Jon's face steadily, carefully, reading hin the way he's best at, with both of them. Lovett is looking too, at the way Jon starts to bite his lip, the way he's holding himself so so still until, suddenly, he's squirming, restless. Until he whimpers, clearly despite himself, and Tommy eases up.

"Hold it longer," Tommy tells Jon, and— _okay_ , that's—

Jon nods, panting, and Lovett goes hot all over, stupidly jealous and insanely turned on at once, when Tommy says, still so gentle, "You're being so good."

He doesn't say, _I'm being good too_ , but he does say, "I can help, if Jon needs—I can help."

Tommy looks down at him. "Yeah. Put your hand where mine is." Tommy lifts his hand out of the way so Lovett can lay his on Jon's belly, and then Tommy's pressing Lovett's hand down and Jon's making needy little noises.

"Fuck," Lovett says. He's staring at his own hand, even though Jon's dick is right fucking there—that's how hot this is, how unexpectedly good. He's not even sure what the fuck it is they're doing, but he's got enough of an idea, anyway. "Fuck, Jon. That's so hot."

"Lovett," Jon says, voice breaking, "Lovett, oh, god."

He's—he's so unfairly beautiful like this. He's beautiful all the time, the bastard, but like this, face screwed up, skin soft and warm under Lovett's hand, Tommy's hand firm over that—oh, fuck, Lovett can hardly take it.

"Like this?" he asks, and turns to Tommy. "Like this, Tommy?"

"Yeah, just like that," Tommy says, and kisses him. Lovett needs so much fucking more than this—he needs Tommy's hands on him again. He wants to—fuck, he was going to suck Tommy off, and he wants that, so fucking much.

He breaks off the kiss, turns to Jon. He's so close to him, sitting on his heels up here; looking him full in the face feels dangerously intimate. "Can I suck off Tommy now?"

"Yeah," Jon says. "God, yeah. I mean—if Tommy says—"

"Right, I'm still king of the, um, the thing." Tommy's blushing. "Yeah. Christ, yeah, Lovett, you can—you should suck me."

It's hotter than Lovett was expecting, hearing Tommy say that, and it's not like—he might have imagined it, once or twice, late enough at night to let himself think about things he usually tries to keep down.

"Fucking—" Lovett doesn't know what he's saying, leans over ungracefully to get at Tommy's pants, the pair of them fumbling to undo his fly.

There's something about cocksucking that's just— _important_. Lovett couldn't explain it to these bros in a million years, despite whatever it is they're doing right now. It's part of him, part of his identity and his whole life experience. It _means_ sex to him, more than anything else: more than getting sucked off, more than getting fucked. Pulling Tommy's cock out and getting the full sensory ride of it, big-red-precome-scented-hard-silky-salty- _big_ , takes this whole impossible day and makes it real.

"Oh, God," Tommy says, above him. "God, Jon, he feels—feels so good." 

"Yeah?" Jon's voice is strained, Lovett can hear it even above the small obscene sounds of Tommy's cock sliding in and out of his mouth. "Jesus, Tom—you like it? He—we're good for you?"

"So good, Christ, you're both—hang, hang on," and then he's leaning over, Lovett following the movement, and Lovett cuts his eyes to the side long enough to make an educated guess that Tommy's pressing on Jon again. Tommy's trying to give them both what they want, all at once, and it makes Lovett want to blow him so fucking well.

He shifts so he can curl a hand around the base of Tommy's cock. Tommy is _big_ —they all know that, anyone who's seen him in or out of pants knows that, whether they're purposefully looking or not—and Lovett wants to try and take him all the way down, down to the root, hear the noises Tommy would make while Lovett pushes his own throat, to feel it. Right now, though, it doesn't feel like the time, and so he jacks Tommy with one hand, focuses on sucking the head, using his lips harder when Tommy groans.

Tommy's balance wobbles, and Jon groans, low and desperate. "Sorry, sorry, I—God," Tommy blurts out, and Jon says, shakily, "No, no, it's good, it's—you can—"

Lovett, maybe selfishly, wants Tommy's attention back. He sucks hard, gives it a bit of a hummed vibration, twists his hand around the shaft now it's spit-slicked, and Tommy gasps. He works a hand into Lovett's hair, fingertips rough on Lovett's scalp, and says, "You have to stop."

Lovett makes a noise of protest, and Tommy says, strangled, "Lovett, fuck—fuck, _please_ ," hand more urgent in Lovett's hair, and Lovett stops, pulls back, wipes his mouth and looks up. Tommy's chest is heaving; the blush does go all the way down.

"Jesus," Tommy says. "I want—move like—" He's manhandling Lovett, and Lovett likes to be manhandled, so he goes with it. Tommy gets him up against Jon, between Jon's suddenly spread legs, up against his chest. Lovett can feel the press of Jon's cock against his lower back. "Just—stay like that," Tommy tells him, as though Lovett has any fucking interest in moving out from what's turning into a man sandwich.

"Oh, fuck," Jon says, with feeling, breath hot on the back of Lovett's neck, and his hips jerk, cock sliding against Lovett. "Lovett, can I—Tom, Tommy, can I touch him?"

Tommy is shifting between Lovett's legs, pressing gently on the inside of Lovett's thighs to have him open them, in a way that's making Lovett's face burn, hot and exposed. "Yeah," he says, to Jon, and Jon's slender hands come down to Lovett's hips, holding him close.

Lovett's still wearing his shirt. He feels a little absurd, but he can still feel Jon through it, Jon's chest hot against his back. Jon's holding him, and Tommy's touching him, _staring_ at him, running his hands up Lovett's thighs and back down again. Lovett's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't Tommy just touching his skin like this, just exploring with his fingertips.

Lovett shifts, once, and Tommy says, "Hold still, I want to look." This is—not what Lovett is used to, in any real way. No one's ever done _this_ before, propped him up for them to touch so gently, for them to watch their hands moving on him. He's had slow sex, gentle sex, careful sex—but nothing like this, nothing like Tommy watching him so closely, touching him like this. Reverent.

Tommy slides his hands up over Jon's and then under Lovett's shirt, lifting it on his wrists as he moves. "You can—take it off," Lovett offers, and Tommy hums noncommittally. He's just playing under it, fingertips on Lovett's sides, on his belly. Lovett's not sure what to do with his own hands; he wants to touch Tommy, or Jon, but doesn't want to interrupt... whatever this is. He sets them on Jon's thighs, for now.

He can feel Jon shiver behind him, can feel how tense Jon is holding himself. It's a stark contrast to the soft way Tommy keeps touching him, brushing his fingers everywhere. He runs his fingertips over one of Lovett's nipple, which isn't usually Lovett's thing so much, but it's so _tentative_ , testing, and the tease of the touch and the concentration on Tommy's face is—it's a lot.

"Tommy," Lovett says, hearing his own voice wobble. "Tommy, what—"

"Just, like." Tommy shrugs. "You never let me touch you."

Lovett's breath catches. He's not sure there's anything he can say to that—or anything he's willing to say, to have them hear. Not yet. "Okay." That's safe enough.

Tommy's watching his face. "Okay," he says, and keeps touching him.

Lovett's shirt has rucked up as Tommy's hands have crept higher, and when Jon shifts, Lovett gets the slick drag of his cock against his skin, sudden and hot. "Jon," Lovett manages, "Jon, fuck, you're—" and then he has to stop, cry out, because Tommy ducks, so quickly, ducks down and puts his lips to the head of Lovett's cock.

He's just touching here, too, with his mouth instead of his fingers. It's soft and explorative and it's going to drive Lovett out of his fucking mind with need if he doesn't do something real and solid soon. "Tommy, you gotta—I need—jerk me off or _something_ , please—"

"I can—" Jon starts, and Tommy pulls back to say, "Not yet, can you wait a bit more?" and the way Jon groans, rolls his hips against Lovett's back, tells Lovett he can before Jon even says it.

Tommy, though—Tommy says, "Lovett, that's so, that's so fucking hot, and he looks like he means it, red to his hairline, pupils blown.

"Tommy," Lovett manages, "please—" and Tommy wraps his lips firmer around the tip of Lovett's cock.

The way Lovett's splayed, he can't even roll his hips to any meaningful degree, can't do anything to make Tommy do _more_ , please fucking just _more_. He could put a hand on Tommy's head, but that's—he's not actually going to do that. He'd rather suffer, just now, than change up the dynamics.

And it is fucking suffering, even if it's maybe turning beautiful, now that Tommy's tonguing at the head of his cock and running soft fingers up and down. It's still not enough. It's so much and not enough, all at once.

"Tommy," he says again, gasping, his hands tightening on Jon's thighs. "Tommy, please," and Tommy groans—Lovett can feel it around his cock, low and obscene—and doesn't speed up. Lovett can't catch his breath, feels untethered in the worst and best way.

He can't keep himself from babbling, now that he's started, now that it seems like Tommy likes it. "Please, Tommy, you have to, you _have_ to, please, I need more—"

Jon's fingers tighten on his hips, too hard and just right. Jon's nose pushes the collar of Lovett's loose t-shirt to one side, and his teeth find the meat of Lovett's shoulder, grounding him, making it easier to keep saying, "Please, _please_ —"

Tommy pulls back, panting, wipes his mouth. "Fuck, Lovett," he says, and finally, finally closes his hand properly around the base of Lovett's dick.

"Oh fuck, oh, please—" and it's easier and easier to keep asking, with Jon anchoring him, and Tommy lowers his head back down, tongues the slit of Lovett's cock, and Lovett is shaking, can't stop it.

He’s going to come, just from this, somehow. He’d need more than this if not for Jon behind him, and all the anticipation, and the way Tommy’s making him beg, and the taste of Tommy’s cock still in his mouth, and and and—

"Tommy," he gasps. "I’m gonna come, you—"

" _Lovett_ ," Jon groans, like Lovett is killing him, his breath coming hot over the crook of Lovett's neck, and that's it, that's all Lovett can take. He's coming, just like that, Tommy's tongue soft on his cock, Jon's hands hard on his hips, not letting him move.

"Oh fuck, oh, please," Lovett is saying, helpless, outside himself, shaking through it. "T-Tommy, fuck."

Tommy doesn’t stop licking him until he’s completely spent, until he lets out a soft "ow?" of burgeoning oversensitivity.

He looks down to see Tommy’s looking up at him, tongue braced against his lip. "Tommy," Lovett says, weakly. He usually has words, but they’re all escaping him right now. 

"That was so," Tommy says, eyes wide, "Jesus, that was so _fucking_ hot."

Lovett laughs, shakily. He feels a bit like his bones might have turned to liquid. "You, you, you have been holding out on us, Tommy."

"Agreed," Jon says. His voice wobbles on the word; now that Lovett can feel anything that isn't Tommy's mouth, he tunes back into the sensation of Jon's cock rubbing, wetter now, up against his back.

"Jon's so hard," Lovett tells Tommy. "Like—I should probably move, if you want to keep him waiting."

He wriggles, just to see what Jon will do. Jon's breath catches, hard, and his hands tighten on Lovett's hips.

"Tom," he says, his voice still breaking. "Tommy, I need—I need—"

Lovett can actually see the indecision on Tommy's face before he says, "C'mere, Lovett," and pulls him away from Jon. Lovett sits off to the side, pulling his shirt down again, and watches as Tommy climbs up closer to Jon, between his spread thighs.

"What do you need?" Tommy asks him, and leans in to kiss the point of his jaw, and then the long column of his neck.

"I need," Jon says, his eyes fluttering shut—Jon, it looks like, goes down easy, much easier than Lovett. From here, Lovett can see Tommy slip his hand between the two of them, can see Jon tense up suddenly when Tommy pushes gently below Jon's belly. "Tommy, jesus, I need—I need to—"

"What do you need?" Tommy says again, quietly, and Jon reaches out blindly in Lovett's direction, connecting the three of them. "Tell us, Jon."

It bursts out of Jon with an embarrassed laugh. "If you don't let me up, like, _now_ , I'm gonna piss the bed, and that's not what I'm into."

Tommy lets out his own startled laugh and sits back, taking his hand off Jon's belly. "Right, let's not do that," he agrees. "Should we come with—"

" _No_ ," Jon says, too-loud. "Sorry. Please don't. Um. I'll just, I'll be right back."

He scoots awkwardly off the bed, holds his pants up with one hand so he can walk. "Just, one second," he says, still in that weird loud voice. "I'll—I have to—"

He's not moving, and, okay, Lovett is partially motivated by concern for his floor and Jon's good jeans, but also, mostly, by the way Jon's expression is unsure, the way he looks like he needs them to be there as much as he needs them not to look. "We'll be right here," Lovett says, letting his voice heavily imply _obviously, you idiot_ in the fondest way he can, and Jon's shoulders relax, and then he says, "Okay, I really—I really have to—" and Tommy says, " _Go_ , Jon, you can, go on," and Jon looks so so relieved, and rushes for the bathroom.

There's silence in the room, and Lovett feels suddenly and intensely awkward, the post-orgasm weirdness setting in. "So, uh," he says, pulling a pillow onto his lap so he doesn't feel as naked. "You... suck dick sometimes?"

Tommy groans, showy, a laugh in it. "If that's a hit on my skill—"

"No, no, just, uh, just inquiring. You know. Making small talk. As I love to do."

"Not in a while," Tommy says, interrupting him. "But, uh. Yeah. You think—you think Jon does?"

Lovett sees it suddenly, a vicious flash of Jon's full mouth stretched around a dick, Jon on his knees, begging like Lovett just was. Fucking hell. He has to clear his throat before he can speak. "I don't think he has," Lovett says. "But, uh—I think maybe he might."

"Yeah," Tommy says. "I mean—he’s here, so. That’s already, um. Kind of more than I ever thought would happen."

Lovett wants to know a lot more about what Tommy thought about happening and not happening, and with whom, and in what combinations, but Jon’s walking back in, shirtless now and a little sheepish.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking between Tommy and Lovett and then away again, just as quick. Lovett is very very aware that he is pantsless and covering his dick with a pillow. He is also very aware that Tommy is _naked_ , bare all over and still somehow bashful about it, and that Jon keeps looking at his chest.

He’s too far away. Maybe Tommy agrees, because he crooks a finger at Jon, beckoning, and Jon steps up to the edge of the bed.

"We were just talking about—uh—what you might be up for," Tommy tells him. "With, you know. Guys."

Jon’s posture gets more bashful. He’s starting to look like a cartoon schoolgirl, one foot tucked behind the other. "You aren’t ‘guys,’" he says. Lovett makes a face, and he rushes to add, "I mean, of course you are—I mean—" He gestures at Tommy’s lap. "I mean, you know. You’re Tommy and Lovett. So."

Lovett can see Tommy's face soften. "I know what you mean," Tommy says, which is one of the nicest things anyone can say to Jon Favreau.

"We're still _guys_ though," Lovett says. It doesn't feel like something he can just—gloss over. "Like, that's still—"

"I know," Jon interrupts. He's too handsome to be that earnest, frankly. It's a constant trial. "But I—I don't know what I feel about _guys_ , generally. I just know how I feel about—about _you_."

"About us or about our dicks?" Lovett knows he’s being annoying, doesn’t want to be, but it’s—if Jon can’t answer it, he needs to know that now, not when Jon realizes, tomorrow or next week or next month, that actually, he only likes their minds.

"Uh," Jon says. "Both. Definitely, um, both. I—yeah."

"Yeah?" Lovett says. "This is—" he laughs, mostly at himself "—I gotta say, I did not see this coming."

Jon is looking between him and Tommy, quick little flicks of his gaze. He rubs his nose, the way he does when he's nervous, and Lovett notices Tommy register that too. There's a moment, the kind that Lovett loves, where they all just—know each other, so well. It just sits in the air, this sense of familiarity, of rightness. The three of them.

"Um," Jon says, not very steadily. "Lovett, can I—I want to kiss you."

"Has anyone ever turned you down?" Lovett asks, and Jon’s sheepish grin is answer enough. "Yes, fine, obviously—"

Jon leans in, gets a knee onto the bed for balance as his hand finds Lovett’s neck, as his head tilts into Lovett’s. It’s confident, steady, the move of a man who’s never found it hard to find enthusiastic partners. There’s something devastatingly sexy about it, that makes Lovett melt into the kiss.

He can forget for a moment that he's pantless and hiding vaguely under a pillow: instead, there's Jon's warm hand on his neck, Jon's mouth sure on his own, and Lovett gives all into it, leaning in, letting Jon lead.

"You look so good," Tommy says, sounding kind of strangled. "You look really—"

"Shh," Lovett tells him, hand on Jon's shoulder to keep him from going anywhere. "Just admire quietly, Tommy, we're busy here." He's _mostly_ joking, but he wants to fucking enjoy this, to sink into the way Jon's exploring his mouth.

Tommy shushes, but the bed shifts and then there's the distinct press of Tommy's cock against Lovett's back. Lovett supposes that's fair enough, if Tommy doesn't want to be completely ignored. He'd be willing to jerk Tommy off, if he thought he could reach from here; as is, he leans back and wiggles a little, just enough to feel like he's saying hi.

It's enough to make Tommy audibly catch his breath, which makes Lovett groan, which makes Jon kiss him harder, the three of them caught in a feedback loop of sex. Lovett reaches out to anchor himself, ends up with his hands on Jon's hips, just over his low slung jeans, runs his hands up just a little to get to the smooth firm skin of Jon's sides.

"What’re we, uh," Lovett says, and then interrupts himself with more kissing. He finishes the sentence eventually: "... doing with you, Jon? What’s Tommy gonna do for you?"

"Tommy could—I’ve thought about—I guess on the subject of dick stuff—"

"You getting a blowjob is definitely not proving anything to me," Lovett tells him, sitting back and grinning at him. He’s red-lipped from the kissing, eyes soft.

"No, I mean, I—" Jon exhales, and then his expression sets into a familiar resolve. Lovett loves when that happens; when Jon gets past himself. "I've been thinking about—Tommy, would you fuck me?"

Lovett can feel firsthand, or first-back, really, how Tommy would feel about that.

"Uh, yes," Tommy says. "I’m gonna talk now, Lovett," although Lovett wasn’t about to stop him this time. "Yes. Definitely. Absolutely. Yeah."

"I can walk you through it," Lovett says, and Tommy coughs, clears his throat, says, "I, uh. I’ve got the principles."

"Sure you have," Lovett says, and wriggles back a bit, just to be a brat about it. "Tell me more about your slot A, tab B thoughts, Thomas. There's, there's skill involved here, it's not just like—"

Tommy scoots back, but it feels more flattering than anything else, like if he let himself stay where Lovett was rubbing back against him, there'd be no need for this conversation at all.

"Lovett, I don’t want to blow your mind here about female anatomy, but women also have, uh—" Tommy runs out of steam, but Jon’s laughing, and Lovett lets him get away with stopping. He got Tommy’s point.

"Have you ever, uh, done that?" Tommy asks, looking at Jon. "You know, with anyone?"

Jon shakes his head. "The other way, a couple times," he says, "but never—never me."

"I'm learning new things about the world," Lovett says. "Fine, fine, I'm going to just relax and enjoy watching the porn, then. You two—" He waves a hand "—you know, get right to it."

He slides out from between them, and Jon gets his other knee onto the bed, moving closer to Tommy. "Hey," Jon says, with that same soft smile. Lovett's starting to think it's less genuine sheepishness, and more a learned tic to make people want to fuck him. Well. Be fucked by him, in the past, but clearly it works both ways. It's certainly still getting Lovett's blood hot, even after the world's most torturous blowjob and world's most satisfying orgasm. It certainly seems to be getting Tommy to lean in and kiss him, hand on the back of his neck.

Getting to watch them like this is—look, he's thought about this too, of course he has. They're his best friends but he's not _blind_ , isn't immune to the way they interact with each other so easily, so familiarly, completely antithetical to so many straight men he knows. Jon has always reached out easily, has always thrown an arm over Tommy's shoulders, been the first to hug him in commiseration or celebration. But this—this is Tommy reaching out and holding him close, Jon pushing into the kiss, Tommy's hard dick bare between them for anyone to see. For Lovett to see. Fuck.

He wonders, idly, if they'd let him film this. He's got his phone... somewhere. It's a lot easier to not scroll twitter obsessively when you're busy having a threesome.

Anyway, he can burn this into his memory. The way Tommy's reaching for Jon's fly, particularly. The way he's tucking his fingers into Jon's waistband and yanking him closer, and then popping the button with one thumb. That's a visual Lovett's going to keep in his brain like a worry stone, to pull out and look at when he needs a little boost.

"Yeah," Jon breathes, and that shyness doesn't sound performative. "Yeah—oh my god—" and Tommy is reaching into Jon's open fly, down under the waist of his boxers, pulling out his dick. In tommy's hand, it looks—Lovett wants to put his mouth on it, and then maybe suck Tommy's fingers for good measure.

He bets they’d let him, if he leaned forward and asked for it. He bets they’d indulge him. But the way this seems to be going, he may get his chance later, and right now he’s entirely ready to watch and enjoy.

"Lovett’s watching you," Tommy says, and Jon sucks in a breath. "Watching me stroke you."

Jon's hips stutter.

"Oh," Tommy breathes, still stroking Jon, slowly, "oh, you like that, huh? You like Lovett watching? Thinking you look good?"

Jon doesn’t answer in words, but he tugs Tommy back in and kisses him sloppily, messy and unfocused.

Lovett says—purely out of a spirit of generosity, wanting to help Tommy rile Jon up— "I’m watching, and you look fucking hot with your dick in Tommy’s hand."

Jon groans, losing his place against Tommy's mouth. "Jesus," he says, low, and Tommy starts shoving at his pants.

"Get these off, Jon", Tommy says, and he's already so flushed that it's difficult to tell if he's blushing about this too. "Let—let us see properly."

Lovett feels a little silly still in his shirt when they’re both going to be naked; he tugs it off and tosses it to the side.

Jon looks fucking good naked, maybe even as good as in Lovett’s fevered imagination, the times he’s let himself guiltily imagine it. Tommy’s hand stroking over the curve of Jon’s ass looks incredible.

Jon is vocal, it turns out, when he's not focusing on holding himself still and calm, makes these incredible little hitching noises, leaning into Tommy for more. Tommy's hand looks so big on Jon's ass—Tommy looks big _everywhere_ —and Lovett wants, with a flash of heat in his belly, to see Jon spanked, bent over for Tommy to do what he liked with.

Jon is pushing back into Tommy's touch, his back making a beautiful curve. "Tommy," he says, shaky. "Tommy, Tommy, are you—you gotta—"

Holy shit. If there's anything Lovett would have said was a pure fantasy, never to be realized, it's the idea of Jonathan Edward Favreau begging to be fucked. Maybe not quite technically begging, and maybe to be fingered, but look: Lovett will take miracles when he gets them, in whatever form they come.

He snickers to himself about "come," but it doesn't distract Tommy from sliding his fingertips towards Jon's hole, or Jon from gasping when he gets there.

He's glad they're at his own house, with lube close to hand. Who knows what kind of sad hand lotion might have been on supply at Jon or Tommy's. He picks out a greasy one—better for beginners—and tucks it into Tommy's free hand.

Tommy fumbles the cap open one-handed, and Jon groans again when he hears it, clutching Tommy closer. It looks like he's holding Tommy more for balance now, like he can't hold himself up and experience this too. Lovett empathise; if Tommy was gently rubbing at his hole like that, he'd be having a rough time bearing his own weight.

"You look so fucking good," Lovett says, helpfully.

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, breathy. "Yeah, you—you _feel_ so good, Jon, fuck."

Fuck. Lovett wants to feel it, too. His fingers itch a little, imagining it. "Let me—you should let me help," he says, the demand bursting out of him. He tries to walk it back, tone down the obviousness of his desire: "I'm the expert in the room, so."

Jon's arching, pushing his ass towards Tommy's hand, and Tommy's breathless when he says, "Uh, yeah, you can—sure."

Lovett doesn't need an engraved invitation. He climbs around behind Jon, only nominally on the bed now, and slides his hand up against Tommy's. Slides his fingertip against Jon's lube-slicked rim, and then the tiniest bit inside. "Oh, fuck," Jon murmurs, words low and soft and muffled in Tommy's shoulder.

"Good oh fuck?" Lovett asks, hearing his voice come out higher than he meant it. He's pretty sure it's a good thing—the way Jon is pressing into Tommy, pushing his ass back towards Lovett, kind of indicates that—but Lovett needs to be _sure_ , is the thing. This is so far outside any of the things he ever let himself imagine that he just—he needs to be sure.

"Yes—Christ, yeah, it’s fucking great, are you kidding?" Jon arches further; he’s starting to resemble a bad comic-book cover, he’s curved so far.

"We should lay him down," Lovett suggests, and Tommy hmms, considering it.

"I want—" Jon says, and cuts himself off, muffling himself against Tommy's shoulder again. Tommy strokes his free hand down what he can reach of Jon's back.

"What do you want, babe?" Tommy says, and Lovett sees him realise what he's said.

"Just, uh. Not on my front? So I can still, like... see you. Both." Jon says it with his face tucked into Tommy's shoulder—he's not exactly seeing them now—and Lovett thinks, with a burst of heat, he means _so you can see me_. Maybe both, but that—definitely that.

"Hot," Lovett says, trying to keep it light even though what he feels right now is intensity, something real and deep and wanting.

"Really hot," Tommy agrees, and Lovett can feel what that does to Jon, feels Jon tighten around the tip of his finger. _Jon_. Fuck.

"C'mon," Lovett says. "Let's, let's look at him. C'mon, Tommy, let's let him see."

Tommy pulls his finger out and starts manhandling Jon, pulling him down on his back onto the bed. Lovett's got enough room to climb fully back on, now, perching near Jon's thighs and watching the way Jon looks embarrassed to be the center of attention. The way Jon's cock looks entirely pleased with it.

"You're gonna have to, uh, open your legs," Lovett says, trying to land it as casually as possible. "You know, if you want us to—"

"I do," Jon chokes, and, fuck, _fuck_ —opens his legs, thighs splaying out as Tommy climbs between them.

Lovett’s been in that position many a time in his life. He knows how vulnerable it can feel—how that’s part of it, sometimes the best part, but it must be new and strange to Jon. Tommy’s leaning in to get a finger back into Jon, but Lovett goes for the brain stimulation instead. "You look so fuckable like this. Like—Tommy’s gonna spread you so wide for his dick."

"Jesus," Jon says, fervently, tipping his head back. He closes his eyes, even though he said he wanted to see them, one hand casting about on the bed. Lovett reaches for it on instinct, locks their fingers together.

"You're gonna—gonna look so good taking it," Lovett continues, watching every flicker over Jon's easily readable face. "Tommy's gonna give it to you so good."

"Don't, ah, don't raise expectations too far," Tommy tells him, and Lovett hopes Jon can hear the arousal in his voice as clearly as Lovett can. He sounds like—well. Like Lovett would feel if he had two fingers inside Jon right now.

He _could_ have a finger inside Jon right now. "Shift over," he tells Tommy, and climbs down to join him. He kisses the inside of Jon's thigh, where it looks too inviting not to touch.

Jon whines, and Tommy says, in that same voice, "Hold still for Lovett."

Fuck.

Lovett slides his hand up Jon's thigh, the smooth skin, until his hand bumps against Tommy's. "Can I—" he starts, asking Tommy, and Tommy groans a yes.

Jon’s mouth opens when Lovett’s finger pushes in, and then it just doesn’t close again. He’s panting and making needy faces and the whole thing is overwhelmingly good for Lovett; he can’t imagine what it’s doing to Tommy, who hasn’t come yet and surely is getting nervous about his upcoming performance.

"I didn't," Jon chokes, "I didn't know it would feel like this," and he's rocking his hips, just slightly, pushing against their fingers.

"Good, right?" Lovett says, and Jon nods frantically. "Feels good, right, Tommy? You feel how open he's getting?"

Tommy makes a strangled noise, his fingers flexing alongside Lovett's.

"He should fuck you now, shouldn’t he, Jon?" Lovett asks, knowing he’s going to get a yes. He can almost feel, sense-memory-style, what Jon’s face says he’s feeling, and it comes with a growing _need_ to just get fucking pounded. Jon may not even know what that feeling is, what that need is for, but Lovett’s pretty sure he knows what Jon wants.

Jon shudders, says, "Please—something, just—"

"Take your fingers out," Lovett says, proud of how his voice only shakes a little. "Let's—you've got this, Tommy, it's time, trust me."

"Yeah, I—yeah," Tommy says, and his fingers slide gently out alongside Lovett’s. "I gotta—condoms?"

"Top drawer," Lovett says, as Jon whines, and Tommy moves to get them. Except— "wait," Lovett says, remembering suddenly, a pang in his stomach, "wait, no, I'm out."

"Fuck," Tommy says, and reaches down to squeeze the base of his cock, hard. "That’s—fine. It’s fine. We’ll just, um. Table that idea."

Jon groans, says, "Tommy—you can just—it’s fine. It’s, I’m not gonna get pregnant."

Lovett catches Tommy's eye. He looks about as poleaxed as Lovett feels, and maybe more if anything, seeing as he's the one who's about to put his dick—fuck—inside Jon.

"We can't just—" Tommy starts, and Jon groans, sounding like Lovett feels. Like they're killing him, like he really fucking needs it.

"Tom, please," Jon says, and he _sounds_ desperate. "It's fine, it's really—please do it."

Lovett leans into Tommy, whispers, "Blink twice if you’ve fucked around unprotected more recently than you’ve been tested, and I’ll get you out of it. Otherwise, just, you know—" He leans back and shrugs, watching Tommy’s face. Tommy doesn’t blink.

"Yeah, Tommy’s gonna fuck you," Lovett announces. "we can tell how much you need it, don’t you, Jon?"

"Oh _god_ ," Jon groans. "Oh god," and it's his time to reach down, grab for his own dick. Lovett is going to burn out of his own skin.

"Just—just fuck him already, you’re killing him," Lovett says, and he knows he sounds as needy as Jon looks.

Tommy’s staring down at Jon, at his face instead of his wide-spread thighs and the shiny rim of his hole. "Yeah," Tommy agrees. "Yeah."

Tommy knee-walks back into place, Lovett shifting aside to make room, and then it's almost too much to watch: Tommy, taking hold of his dick and lining himself up, slicking himself with extra lube; Jon, mouth open, staring at Tommy's hands.

It... doesn’t quite work, Tommy rearranging and broadening his thighs to try to get where he needs to be.

"Pillow," Lovett suggests, but they don’t seem to hear him. He reaches up to snag the fluffiest one, and gets a hand under Jon’s ass. "Up."

Jon lifts his hips, which has the dual effect of allowing Lovett to push the pillow underneath him at just the right place and of putting Jon's cock at about eye level. He's so hard Lovett is frankly surprised he hasn't come yet; flushed and wet at the tip, gorgeous. Lovett wants to suck him too, wants to put his mouth to Jon's pretty dick and have Tommy tell them just how fucking good they look.

But that's—maybe, amazingly, thrillingly—for another time. Right now, Tommy needs to get in Jon before Lovett collapses from anticipation.

"Is that better?" Lovett asks, absently reaching over to help line Tommy up. He only thinks, _right, my assistance isn’t necessary here_ when Tommy gasps, but by then it would be weirder to let go. Besides, Tommy’s grabbing for his forearm, fingers tight, and Lovett doesn’t think that’s a please-let-go grip.

Whatever. Let this be one more way they’re excessively codependent.

It kind of reminds him of jerking someone off—not just his hand around Tommy's dick, but the familiar unfamiliarity of it, the different angle of approach. He encourages Tommy on, lines him up, and then—oh, fuck, and then the head of Tommy's dick is nudging at Jon's hole, obscene. It feels like all three of them are holding their breath.

Jon moves before Tommy does, tilting up towards him—them—like an invitation. Tommy takes it, sinking down in little back-and-forth movements, two steps forward and one step back.

Lovett could definitely let go now, but he waits until his thumb and forefinger and the soft webbing between them are brushing against Jon’s hole. Until he has to.

Jon is scrabbling for purchase at the sheets. "Tommy," he says, cracked, "oh my god, you—you feel—"

"Yeah," Tommy says, breath coming fast. They're staring at each other, not looking away. "Is it—is it okay, are you okay?"

Jon laughs shakily. "So fucking okay," he says, and reaches out. "Lovett, can you—I—" and Lovett grabs for his hand on a hot rush of emotion, inclusion and arousal and wonder.

Jon's thighs look strong and muscled the way they're hitching up around Tommy's broad chest now; the two of them look perfect together, jock fucking jock. But Jon's got Lovett's hand in his, and Tommy's saying, "Lovett's watching you, he's, he likes it," and they're all here together, somehow, the same fucking wild _somehow_ that's defined the last ten years of Lovett's life.

Jon's making these little breathy noises every time Tommy pushes back in; Tommy's being so slow, so careful, and Jon's face is screwing up with it, pushing back into Tommy, hand so tight on Lovett's.

"You look so good," Lovett tells them, aiming for dirty and landing entirely on earnest. "You're so fucking good."

"You gotta," Jon says, and tugs Lovett up, lets go of Lovett's hand to grab for his face, the back of his neck. Lovett goes as soon as he knows what's being asked of him, kissing Jon gently, soothingly. That's not what Jon wants, he realizes fast; Jon wants hard and biting. Lovett can do that.

It's devastating, the way Jon pushes up for more, gasping against Lovett's mouth; the way he can hear Tommy fucking Jon, the obscene wet sound of it; Tommy's breath coming hard and hoarse; Jon shuddering underneath them.

"Look how much you need it," Tommy manages, thick-voiced. "God, Jon, look at you, look at you both."

Lovett—is hardening up again, somehow, aching with it between his legs.

He pulls away from Jon’s mouth, needing to see this, the smooth rhythm Tommy’s gotten into. Jon’s moving under him, adjusting and readjusting, and Lovett could help again but he wants to see Jon find it for himself.

Jon almost kicks Lovett in the face, accidentally, as he works one leg over Tommy’s shoulder. Lovett doesn’t mind, mostly because he missed, but also because the sound Jon makes when the angle is suddenly perfect makes Lovett’s dick throb.

"Jesus," Tommy says, getting a hand on Jon’s leg to keep it balanced. "You’re so hot for my dick, Jon."

"Oh my god," Jon says, like he can't hear anything, pleasure-drunk. "Oh my god, Tommy, oh my—oh god, oh please, oh _fuck_ ," shoving to meet Tommy, breath coming fast and desperate against Lovett's mouth. "Lovett, Lovett—"

"I'm close," Tommy gasps, suddenly, "Jon, you gotta—Lovett, can you—" and Lovett squirms a hand into the tight space between them, feels out Jon's dick.

Jon’s been waiting—Jon’s been waiting, and watching, and _wanting_ , this whole time, and now it’s fully his turn, Lovett thinks. Now Jon’s got Tommy in him and Lovett’s tight grip and Lovett can hear the moment he gives up on waiting anymore. It’s just a soft, "Oh—" but it’s a syllable that comes with Jon’s grip on Lovett’s arm suddenly tightening and then relaxing, and a sound that’s followed almost immediately with Tommy saying "Holy _shit_ , that’s—"

"Isn't it," Lovett manages, watching Jon's gorgeous face screw up and smooth out, watching Jon fight for breath. "Isn't it so good-" and Tommy interrupts, tight-voiced: "Jon, I'm gonna—I—" and Lovett turns his head, looks at Tommy's face scrunched up with effort, with holding back.

"You can," he says, and runs a hand down Tommy's back, lets himself continue over the curve of Tommy's ass. "You can, he came, you're good to go." He wonders if Tommy really isn't sure, or if he just thinks—who knows, really, what goes on in Tommy's too-considerate brain sometimes. Tommy's still tense, still rolling his hips, like he's not hearing Lovett.

"Tom," Jon says, gentle, looking up at him. "Come for us. Please."

" _Oh_ ," Tommy chokes, and his hips stutter, again, and then he stills, deep in Jon, eyes tight closed. He's holding tight to Jon's leg too, keeping them all in place. He looks—looks like it hurts, like it's so good it hurts, like his heart is too full for words.

Lovett wants to lock this image, this whole picture and everything it means, into whatever part of his brain can hold it best. Memory degrades: human, computer, every kind. But he wishes he could have this, exactly as it is, forever.

Tommy sighs—a happy, contented sigh—and pulls out slowly, lets Jon’s leg down. "Lovett," he mumbles, and reaches out to tug Lovett closer.

Lovett goes easily, gives into the way Tommy's mouth is opening for him, the way Tommy is warm and lax with pleasure, touching Lovett like it's the first time again, just as amazed.

After a minute, Tommy pulls back, grinning softly at him. "Lovett’s hard," he says, and Jon makes a humming, interested noise.

"Can I—touch?" Jon says, without moving, and Tommy taps Lovett's ass—not quite a slap but definitely something—says, "Show Jon."

Lovett's not sure if that's a no to Jon's question—he wants it not to be a no to Jon's question—but he did enough weird group stuff in New York, once upon a time, to know that "Show Jon" means "lay your cock out on your palm like you're offering it up." Something about it is deeply hot, the memory of his wilder days, or just—Jon, wanting to touch him. Tommy, not wanting to let him. Both of them stinking of sex, loose from their fuck.

Lovett thinks about what _Jon_ must look like, dripping, maybe, where Tommy has pulled out; how maybe Jon wants to touch himself too, there, to feel himself new and wet and used. The thought makes his dick throb, and he has to catch his breath. "Like this?" Lovett asks, slightly through gritted teeth. "Like this, Tommy?"

"Yeah," Tommy says, voice a little unsteady. "Yeah, like that, just—"

"You gotta let somebody do some touching," Lovett protests. "Looking is just not going to get the job done. Trust me, I've tried it."

"Jesus," Jon groans. "You've—you gotta let us see some time, Lovett, that's so fucking—yeah." He sounds like maybe it'd be worth trying the other way, watching and watching Jon to see if he could shoot all over himself just from their attention, their praise.

Fuck. _Fuck_. "Tommy," Lovett says, weakly, thinking about it, and Tommy says, "Jon, you can—touch him, Jon, show us how good you are with your hands."

Jon reaches for Lovett so fast that it's impossible not to be flattered by it. Jon's just come; he can't possibly be that into this, biologically speaking or whatever. And yet, apparently, he's all kinds of into it, intellectually. Sensually. Something.

He's licking his bottom lip, staring at his hands—one wrapped around Lovett's cock, one holding him by the hip—and Lovett watches his tongue move, thinks _he wants to suck me. Jon fucking Favreau wants to suck my cock._

"Are you gonna move?" Lovett chokes out. "Generally that's how it—oh _fuck_ ," because Jon does, moves, starts jerking Lovett, awkward at first with the angle but completely intent. They're all watching Lovett's cock appear and disappear into Jon's fist, fuck, oh, fuck.

Lovett's not into being watched, not the way Jon obviously is. But he's not _not_ into it. It's certainly not a turnoff to have the two of them staring at his dick. He could get fucking used to this.

It's overwhelming, really. Maybe that's why his higher brain function is off; maybe that's why he says, "We're gonna do this again, right?" when he would never, with all of his neurons firing, have asked without turning it into a joke.

"Yes," Tommy breathes, to the side, reassuringly intent, honest. Then, more nervously: "Uh, can we? Is that—"

"Yes," Jon says, emphatically. "Please, yes," and the need in his voice, and the relief of Tommy's hand on Lovett's back suddenly, palm warm against Lovett's skin, has Lovett suddenly so close his throat is tight, his eyes prickling.

"Well—good. Then. Great," Lovett manages, and wraps his hand around Jon’s, jerking himself faster with Jon’s grip.

Jon gets the hint—it's not subtle—and jerks faster too, both of them working Lovett up. "Jon," Lovett chokes, and Tommy leans in, kisses Lovett's neck just as Jon twists his hand. He's— "Tommy, can—" Lovett starts, desperate, hanging on the edge, and Tommy says, somehow sounding just as desperate, " _Yes_."

Lovett feels it working up through him, like it’s been released by Tommy’s permission as much as by Jon’s hand and his own. He doesn’t warn Jon; if Jon doesn’t want to get his hand messy, he’s going to have to learn to deal with it.

Jon seems pretty pleased, actually, when Lovett spurts over their fingers. "Christ, yeah, that’s it, baby," Jon mumbles, jerking him through it even though Lovett’s own hand has gone loose.

It's really all Lovett can do to stay upright, balanced on his knees. Tommy moves closer behind him, takes some of his weight, and Jon's hand is still moving on Lovett's dick and—and they're both _there_ , with him, and it's so good Lovett could cry.

They’re going to do this again. So Lovett’s within his rights, he thinks, to ease Jon’s hand off his cock and shift until he’s lying in the crook of Jon’s arm, Tommy still kneeling over them.

Jon’s hand, wet-warm and turning to sticky, finds Lovett’s side as Lovett says, eyes on Tommy’s face, "Cat nap?"

Jon is already looking heavy with sleep. Lovett could have guessed he'd be like that, the kind of guy that just passes out when he's done, but it's still kind of endearing, the way he's bare and snuggling against Lovett in a way that's going to be way too warm not that far in the future.

Tommy nudges in on Lovett's other side, fitting himself along Lovett's back. He's sticky too, sweaty, and the room stinks of sex. It's unimaginable. It's unbelievable. It's—them. "Cat nap," Tommy agrees, and puts his hands over theirs.


End file.
